Gentlemen, tonight I decided to watch the lot of you earn the gross national product of a Latin American country to play what I assumed would be baseball. Having made this error, I'd now like the last 135 minutes or so of my life[1] back so I can put this time to better use, such as by spending it crawling over gravel, projectile vomiting, or repeatedly closing my head in a door.

Did you all walk to California? That might be one conceivable explanation for the limp, apathetic approximation of baseball I witnessed with emotions that ran the gamut from annoyance to dull fury. In seven innings you managed to collect three hits and not a solitary walk off Joe Blanton, owner of a 5.76 ERA,* while pitching ineffectively and fielding badly. While each and every one of you deserves to have the buffet overturned and be herded into the shower for a good screaming-at, I'm just going to single out a few of you. If your name isn't called, rest assured you probably did something stupid too — I'm just too disgusted to remember it clearly at the moment.

Tommy, I don't want to read the paper tomorrow and see some innocuous remarks about a ball that just tipped out of someone's glove, plays one hopes to see made and the usual I'll-take-responsibility-for-everything-that-was-my-fault-which-wasn't-much bushwah that comes out of your mouth. You pitched badly enough to lose, as usual, and we're all tired of it.

Carlos, I know the quad's hurting, but lackadaisical fielding is inexcusable, particularly when it gives TMB over there yet another excuse.

David, you're a good kid and all, but the histrionics aren't endearing. We know you're trying, so you don't need to telegraph your agony to the cheap seats. There was a kid named Jefferies who did that stuff a while back. You don't want to be mentioned in the same paragraph as him ever again.

Kaz, when you're brought in for the end of a lost cause, is it too much to ask that you field one chance without screwing it up?

DeJean, where were you? God help you if you were calling the official scorer again — there's no way to get that leadoff home run blamed on one of your teammates, you know. I don't even know what to say to you, other than that you have no discernable abilities that would benefit a major-league baseball team. I need to talk to Omar about you. Omar? Dammit, where'd he go?

Victor, I'm looking at the ceiling because I'm not sure I can look at you right now. When you're the tying run and a 21-year-old closer is brought into the game, you might want to work a goddamn count, instead of bouncing into a double play on the second pitch. You — ugh. Give me a moment. Judging from the balls Kaz and Carlos hit in the ninth, Huston Street didn't have his best stuff, but you didn't find that out, did you, Victor? Ass-brained semi-at-bats like this make me wonder if in fact you aren't getting exactly the amount of playing time you deserve.

32 and 32. How'd we win 32?

Y'know, I feel for that guy who got entered in the sweepstakes for a Durango and a million bucks or whatever the hell that fool promotion was, because to be eligible he had to call, which means he had to watch seven innings of whatever the hell it was you guys were doing on the field tonight. It ain't worth it, fellas. Not by a long shot. Now get out of my sight until tomorrow night. When things better be different.

* 6.13, actually. And I thought I was being too harsh.

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